


Little Child of Christmas

by 0positiv



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 14:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0positiv/pseuds/0positiv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha - Russian female given name, originally a diminutive form of Natalia, which derives from the Latin 'Dies Natalies', meaning 'Natal Day' or 'Birthday' in reference to the traditional birth of Jesus, traditionally given to girls born around Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Child of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> **AN:** Usual disclaimer: Nothing but the plot and the weird analogies belongs to me, not making money with it, not paying for burgers with it ;)

Her hair is wet, as is his bathroom floor and a good part of the wall behind the tub. As are his shirt and trousers and that's probably what unnerves him most about the whole tiresome ordeal. She does not like the scent of his shampoo and keeps squirming away when he tries to wash the dirt out of her hair. She pushes away his hands with an angry noise, then pouts and folds her little arms in front of her chest, eyes bright with a child's righteous fury at an adults' persistent pestering.

He sighs, puts the shampoo away and does his best to get her hair clean with just water. She endures it with the air of a queen suffering for her country, a rather diminutive and dirty queen who's missing a tooth. The gap in her lower row of teeth unnerves him. It is like a glaring neon sign ripping apart any sense of symmetry.

After an hour spend alternately washing her and talking her into staying put he lifts her out of the tub, dries her off and wraps her up in his terry cloth bathrobe. It makes her look like a dwarf playing dress up. It should be a cute image, he thinks, but he could never quite find it in him to fall victim to the _Kindchenschema_ Lorenz proposed as a trigger for a species to care for their young.

He picks her up and stiffens slightly as he feels her arms wrap around his neck in that possessive hug little children adopt every time someone picks them up. It's like they are afraid to fall, like they never completely trust the person carrying them. Or maybe it is just their bodies remembering the evolutionary legacy of tiny ape firsts clinging tight to their mother's fur.

When he puts her down in his armchair she seems reluctant to relinquish her hold on him and only carefully applied leverage and the promise of hot chocolate and biscuits enable him to pry her loose. Her eyes follow him as he retreats to the kitchen, he can't quite interpret the emotions behind their glance. Is it suspicion, fear of abandonment, hunger?

He makes the hot chocolate he borrowed from his neighbour – "It's my niece, you see, her mother's in hospital and I find myself in the sudden situation of entertaining a child. How much did it cost…? No really, I can't accept…. That's very kind of you. Give my regards to your husband and sons."- following the instructions on the package to the letter and carries the steaming cup and a platter of biscuits back into the living room.

She eyes the offering with barely disguised happiness but seems reluctant to actually touch it until he repeatedly tells her to help herself. She devours the biscuits with the speed of someone who had to fight for their food, who had to be faster then the other hungry people if they wanted anything at all to eat. He wonders for how long she had been living in that tunnel. For how long had the monsters kept her down there like a sick kind of mascot? They clearly had not been feeding from her as he'd found no marks on her body, no scars or wounds that would match a Type 2's modus operandi.

She burns her tongue on the hot chocolate even after he reminded her that it is called _hot_ chocolate for a reason. She pulls a face, mutters "Ouchy", and starts to blow over the top of the beverage in a rather loud and exaggerated manner. He sits stiffly in his chair, observing her, thinking about scenarios for dealing with her. She needs a cover story for what has happened to her, and she needs to be put into the foster care system as soon as possible. There is no way of erasing her knowledge of monsters but given her age people will put it down to a very vivid imagination and the trauma of loosing her parents.

After finishing her hot chocolate she curls up in the armchair like a cat and falls asleep within an enviable short amount of time. He walks into the next room to call his men for an update on the clean up operation of the tunnel, his voice low so as not to disturb her sleep. The clean up went smoothly after their first disastrous attempt for which, he is certain, they are wholeheartedly blaming him, the _new boss_. The victims have all been identified, the child's mother and father among them. Inquiries found no other living relatives of Natasha Miles.

That was her name, Natasha. In Russia it used to be the diminutive form of Natalia, stemming from the Latin word for birthday, a traditional name for girls born around Christmas. Her parents clearly hadn't known about that tradition for her birthday, being in summer, could not be any further away from Christmas. He advised his men to fill out the necessary forms to have her delivered into the care of a social worker tomorrow.

He went back into the living room and stood on the other side of the coffee table, looking down at her sleeping form. One part of his mind wondering if it would be the done thing to carry her to his bed the other part frowning at the spreading wet stain her hair left on the upholstery. He decided to leave her where she was for the time being. It might just wake her up should he attempt to move her.

Instead he finally changed out of his wet and slightly dirty clothes, putting them into a plastic bag, debating whether to have them cleaned or burned. He picked up the little pink rucksack that he had taken from her sleeping place in the tunnel. There was a more or less clean change of clothes inside, a ragdoll missing an arm as well as a curious assortment of stones, twigs and animal bones, a child's treasure chest no doubt but rather disgusting in its filthiness. He put all her clothes into his washing machine hoping the tumble drier would make them wearable by tomorrow.

Once again finding himself in the living room and in contemplation of her sleeping face he made an effort to shake off any sentimental feelings he might be developing for her. He told himself that he was rather looking forward to handing this little invader of his privacy over to social services. She was not his responsibility, not his to worry about. It would be a relief to never have to see her again. Although he would have to have someone check up on her now and then to make sure she did not pose a danger to his work. Maybe he should better do it himself, just to be sure…


End file.
